Fiat Lux
by QQQQQ
Summary: Finding a dome, Re-L (Lil) and Vincent are ensnared by a proxy into a dual reality: one a paradise, and another hell.
1. Chapter 1

**Fiat Lux – **by QDesjardin  
_In a lost dome, Lil and Vincent grow entrapped by a promise of unfathomable dreams.._

_(Note: __I use Lil instead of Re-L, even though the latter is the 'correct' spelling of her name, because it's the spelling I'm used to when first watching the show. Isn't Lillian a nicer name than "Real" anyways?)_

**1**

The Rabbit courses on in the vast, abandoned desert – its sails collecting the air's radiation, the sky the colour of coffee with faint auroras. In the boat, while Lil re-dresses her hair juuust right in her quarters, Vincent tries out Pino's harmonica. He remembers a tune, a memory from when he was young, and it used to play on the radio all the time, but only musters a bare rendition.

"Awesome! Awesome!" Pino goes, clapping over Vincent's efforts. "Soon, you can be just as good as me.."

After growing bored, Vincent sighs, and leaves the harmonica over to Pino as he revisits the logs. The only interesting thing was this rock canyon, with swirling colours, and he's saved some of the shimmering stones as souvenirs; they scratch pretty easily, but the scratches reveal streaks of glowing energies. Is it some kind of radioactive rock?

Lil didn't seem too enthused, but she got the idea of sprinkling her hair with this subtle sheen – she always seems so absorbed with her looks, even when there's no one else around.

Then Vincent stops hearing the sound of Lil blow-drying her hair.. she steps out, her face, her _looks, _as if she's stepped out of a fashion cover. Her glossy lipstick especially, and Vincent has to hold in the urge to wolf whistle.

"Hmph, how do I look?" she goes, as she twirls her body around to showcase.

"You look.. fine.." Vincent approaches her, and he spots her collar, not folded out quite right, so he reaches for her neck and puts it out.

"Fine?" Lil smiles, a soft blush showing on her cheeks. "You must be flabbergasted. Don't be so shy, being modest with your feelings like that - we're stuck together for God knows how long, so I figure it's better to be more honest with one another."

Should Vincent go ahead on her offer? It would seem too forthcoming if he spews out how his heart still pounds for her, whenever he has the chance of being around her. So he shrugs it off, saying, "Hehe, it's nothing much."

"You sure? Well, it's entirely up to you."

Then – the rabbit's sensors are heard going off; and Lil and Vincent head up to the deck to see, from the horizons, a glowing dome. It's so strangely apprehensive, and yet exciting all the while – you have no idea what to expect, as each dome housed a world made in the visage of their respective Proxies, one world as different from another.

But they need supplies. Food, cosmetics, maintenance parts..

/

The rusted, metal placard by the airlock reads "Zaporizhzhia," with a listing of its founding colonizers. Pino waddles by Vincent's waist, as Lil attaches her tricorder to the airlock's maintenance jack – basically tricking the door to open sesame for a bunch of strangers. The process is simple, as Lil concentrates on the petit windows of the tricorder's screen, and then, with several heavy **thunks**, the door recedes away.

The inner chambers bear little welcome, with no personnel or security, but Lil has some familiarity with the layout and she leads the party over, from the labyrithine corridors of piping and catwalks, over to the subway stations where, below the laid tracks and cars, the deep machinery still clacks below into an abyss.

"Vincento..!" Pino gasps, her raised arm directing at what at first looks like piles of silk, bundled in the corner.

"Pino, what's the fuss?" Lil goes. She has her shotgun readied; one cartridge for normal enemies, the other filled with UV radiation for Proxies. And as she draws closer, she begins to realise the silk piles conceal within them bodies. Some piles having petite tarantulas, weaving out and in as they systematically latch onto the protruding veins with the tendrils – apparently draining the bodies of their vitality.

Some bodies still shiver with the barest signs of sentience.

Lil kneels down, holding her tricorder to scan the bodies. The spiderlings are synthetic, and apparently, the bodies are held in some kind of medical _stasis, _keeping them alive but in a comatose state. But why?

Vincent feels an electric nervousness, gnawing, permeating his being. It's the same feeling when he's within another proxy's influence. _Did a proxy do this..?_

"I'm scared.." Pino goes, tugging at Vincent's arm. "Let's go back to the Rabbit.."

"Not without the supplies. We'll be careful; keep a lookout for anything useful or dangerous Pino." Vincent gives a thumbs-up, and it makes Pino skip with glee.

They're on a platform overhanging the floating tracks – one of the cabooses is alit, with a shadow of a figure projecting onto the windows, so Lil takes a step inside, and the smell of warm, lush vanilla surprises her – the air inside feels warmer and lived-in, as opposed to the oppressing unlife outside.

Behind the velvet curtains, the flickering of candlelight. Lil brushes the curtains aside, and finds a figure in a wreathed cloak – a mechanical skeleton, its dull skull bearing remnants of muscle and skin. It's huddled over the stove, boiling a kettle, the steam billowing into nothingness with the air.

"Oh, I was waiting for you, _ma cherie.._" The voice is regal, yet synthesized. The figure puts up the kettle and pours the steamy water into the two cups, sitting upon the silver tray. When it gathers the tray and turns around, you see its eyes, the irises green, bloodshot, distinctly human.

Vincent has trailed in after Lil, and he is disarmed by the homely atmosphere. His feeling of being on edge goes away, and the skeleton sets the tray upon a small table.

"Come, sit, you must be cold.."

Lil does so hesitantly – and when was the last time she had sat down, feeling like a little princess? Not since she was a child. She gets herself cozy on the stool.

"Who are you?_" _she asks._ "What _are you? I've never seen an autoreiv like you before."

"I am no autoreiv!" it snaps. "I am _Madame Argounova_ – and I manage my new home here, while the world goes on decaying. You two are new faces. But I know a starving face when I see one."

"We just need supplies," Vincent goes.

"And only supplies? You're not thinking of leaving so soon?" If Argounova has a mouth, her lips would be furled up in consternation, but instead, you get a forlorn glance from the eyes, like she's been alone for so long, and wants company..

Pino wanders in, and she waddles over to the table.

"I wasn't expecting a third – your child?"

And Lil realises – _she's tapped into the dome's life sensors! That's how she knew we were coming! Pino's an autoreiv, so she wouldn't register.._

"She's our adopted daughter," Lil improvises on the spot, glancing at Vincent to play along with the ruse.

"Yeah. Pino, say hi to the lady, be nice!"

Pino smiles. "Hallo! How do you do?" She gives a courteous bow – having been made to serve the needs of an aristocratic family.

"She's so well-mannered!" Argounova glees. "Oh, you must be a wonderful _family,_ and in this day and age, it's something to be proud of."

Even though it's not really true, Vincent blushes over the idea of having Lil as his wife-to-be, and with Pino to look after. He lets out a sigh, and glances at Lil dreamily with that thought in mind. Beneath her hard exterior, a warm, beating heart that is asking to be tamed.

"We're archeologists," Lil goes, "on our way to a scavange site. But we ran short of food and fuel as raiders hit us and demanded sustenance. Please – help us."

"So I understand.." Argounova's fingers are bony joints, snapping to and fro, and Lil senses she is up to no goodly. Lil hasn't even touched her cup, while Vincent has sipped the mocha, finding it so delectable and refreshing.

"We can afford to stay here a bit," Vincent says, his cheeks blushing red, with his head wavering, and Argounova seeming to nod along.

"Vincent..!" Lil sees that his eyes have dilated, and imagines that the drink is spiked. _You damn fool, thinking you can make yourself at home in a strange place._ She readies her shotgun up, and Argounova nabs the barrel of Lil's weapon with shocking reflex.

Lil struggles with the skeleton over her gun, losing the tug-of-war as she feels her gun slipping away from her grasp.. she lets go of it, and tries pulling out her pistol instead. She is able to squeeze out a single shot, right into Argounova's gut, which explodes in a geyser of gel.

Pino screams – she finds a cupboard to hide herself in.

Argounova reels from the blow. As Lil prepares to fire another shot, the skeletal being whacks her with the shotgun's butt, clattering Lil to the floor, where she trembles from her trauma.

Then, Argounova inspects Vincent, who seems doe-eyed, oddly complacent to the sudden event – his head in the clouds, so to speak. Instead, he munches on the brownies on the table, as if he's just realised how hungry he's always been.

He wolfs down the chocolatey goodness, left and right. Even when the windows don't show the station anymore, but a dark tunnel, full of orange lights – before emerging out into the paradisum of a soft, hazy spring, where a lake shimmers beneath the grey skies and the children come out to swim.

And then, Vincent is no longer in his orange jumpsuit, but in a casual T-shirt and jeans. The table full of goodies is gone.

He's sitting on a couch, where the TV blares out a commercial for new, discounted furniture – look at that upholstery on that chair! And it's dirt cheap! He feels at ease, having started a vacation.

He wanders around the home, everything looking new, yet feeling so familiar. The flowery pattern on the walls, the hardwood floor, and how he has to press hard on the door handle to get into the bedroom.

Just a single bed. He has no one _yet _to live with.

/

Vincent descends the apartment stairway, where there are clothes hung from the windowsill to the building across. A woman, humming a folk tune; it's the sweetest he's ever heard. And he emerges outside, where the white blossoms tumble down to the checkerboard pavement - a dancing snow which never melts –

A residential neighbourhood, peaceful and ornate, where the streets seem crafted from a time when architects had placed delicate care into the aesthetics. Vincent is walking, as a way of mulling over the uncanny feeling of his memories, but also to soak in the atmosphere of this place he ought to call _home._

He finds a cafe, where people are lively chatting, some using the gambling mini-casinos and others who are zoned into the soap opera playing on the petite TV. _I could sure use a wake-up drink._

So Vincent stops by, and has the urge to ask for a _cafe con leche_, with extra cream..

The cafe's tender is an old, spritzy man, with the eyebrows suggesting years of hardy experience, and he says: "Aahhh, Vincenzo.. I'm betting on you – you got that big poker game coming up.. you've always came out as the winner, and I'm sure you won't let me down!"

Vincent blinks. Then he recalls a sense of having picked up, shuffled and even counted cards. "What poker game?"

"Don't tell me you've suddenly got amnesia now! You're our local champion – and you're about to win the regional championship!"

The bartender winks, as he serves Vincent his cup of coffee. It's frothy, and it goes down smooth – Vincent asks for a brownie, and the bartender happily obliges.

And then on the TV.. it's a commercial break, advertising for women's hair shampoo. Vincent catches gaze of the ad, it's showing how she's brushing her gorgeously jet-black hair. _Non, it couldn't be.._ she has no eye-liner though, but her glaring, discriminating eyes say all.

_"Revlon hair products. Because you're totally worth it!"_

She's so familiar, somehow. Vincent tries putting a name to her face, but doesn't manage to. Still, he is haunted enough by her image, and he tries asking the other patrons if they know the chick on the ad. None of them do, but there's an ad agency in town he could consult with..

/

The agency is a sleek building, overlooking the lake. Vincent gets off the omnicab, and by the reception area, which is packed with applicants, he pays the receptionist (who's on the phone) a visit.

"Are you looking to apply for our next ad?" she goes.

Vincent looks around, and he finds everyone's eyes _on him_, murmuring – the champion poker player, seeking to advertise? How unfair! But he focuses his mind back on what he's here for. "I'm looking for the woman who was in the hair commercial.."

"Which 'hair commercial'? We've got several out in the air – you mean for our blow-drying product?"

Vincent is stumped. He tries recalling from memory; what was it, Revlon? Revlon hair!

"Revlon shampoo," he goes. "It has a woman, jet-black hair.."

"A lot of our shampoo ads have jet-black hair models.. but if you're talking about the one that's airing now – I can give her your number to reach you by. Won't promise you anything; you're Vincent Law, right? The card player?"

"Yeah."

"Just press your thumbprint here.."

The receptionist offers him a flat panel, which Vincent presses his thumb upon and she gives him a thumbs-up sign.

"What's her name?" Vincent asks. "So I know what to call her.."

"Lillian Mayer. But she prefers Lil in short."

/

When Vincent arrives back at his apartment, he searches the drawers, the boxes, for a deck of cards, and he stumbles upon an ornate deck box that's sitting on the TV. He pulls the deck out, it slips into his hands, he feels how each card has a rough texture that lets his fingers get a fine grip, and then on the living room's table, he tries shuffling the entire cards – with surprising dexterity, and then lays out the cards in a 4-player fashion..

At the back of his mind though, he cannot shake off the feeling that he's living up someone else's dream. He didn't know about his card skills or that he has an upcoming tournament until other people told him.. but what else is there? Trying to recall anything else about himself is a haze, like imagining the day after tomorrow.

But that woman though.. he feels like he's known her from another lifetime ago.

Vincent lays the cards down, and he goes over to the bathroom where he sees his reflection in the mirror. The green eyes, a young and unsuspecting face. He peers closer, and in his eyes, he thinks he catches a glimmer of_ someone else_, masked and lurking..

The phone rings.

Vincent picks up the phone in the bedroom, him sitting upon the comfy bedsheets.

"Hello? I heard you wanted to talk with me?"

Right away, Vincent just _knows_ it's that girl. "Lil?" he goes, and her name slips out his mouth naturally, like he's said it a dozen times. "I want to meet. I think.. oh, it's hard to explain. But I feel like I know you."

"Um, I'm sorry.." He hears her inhale. "Is this a joke? If you're not calling for business or anything, then—"

Vincent's heart sinks. Secretly he's hoping that she'll know him too, but it's getting awkward enough as is. "No, it's fine.. I think I must have the wrong number."

"Wait. Vincent.. Vincent Law. I feel like you're familiar. But you're that poker champion, so I guess I must have seen a few of your matches. What do you really want with someone like me?"

"To meet. Just over some coffee and pie?"

"Hmm. Wait, I'm getting another call from my agent – do you mind if I get back to you later?"

That was it. Vincent puts down the phone, a little dejected over the missed opportunity, but he has a card game to look forward to. Then he stumbles upon his bedroom counter, where he finds a day planner, and in it, he finds how he has 'exercise' planned for the next hour, at the Dayton gym.

That honestly sounds boring – Vincent doesn't think of himself as someone who'd energetically work his body out for the sake of it, but he decides to go anyway.

/

At the gym, where you can find various people working their abs, legs and the whatnot, Vincent is prepared to go ask the counter for a locker, but then, some businessmen (who have been waiting with a briefcase) tap him on the shoulder.

"You've kept us waiting for over half an hour, Vincenzo!" They cajole Vincent out of the gym and into a chevalier (it's a self-drawn carriage).

The lead businessman, in his white suit and tie, programs in a route around the town where they won't be disturbed, and as the chevalier strides down the road -

"So, this is one-fifth of the dough promised."

The briefcase's code is put in, and it snaps open, revealing rows of paper credits. Vincent pores over the cash, personally inspecting the wrapped bills.

"And as you've so willingly offered, make sure your ass loses by the fourth round. In your eyes, Vincenzo, we see how the years of poker have taken their toll. Inevitably, even a king must fall, so why not retire into grace? You have so much in your future to look forward to, beyond the card game.."

Vincent shuts the briefcase, and looks at the man in white – meanwhile, the other mafiosos beside him seem mildly unconcerned, besides glancing out the window. _How much money do I really have anyways? Imagine what I could do with this.._

"Say it with me Vincenzo," the man in white goes. "On the fourth, your ass goes down."

"My ass goes down on the fourth."

"Perfecto. Briefcase code is 514, mind you, and don't let anyone catch you with this sucker out in the open. And by the way, Don Antonioni sends his warm regards!"

They drop him off by his apartment, and Vincent watches the chevalier go by, as he feels how _loaded_ the briefcase is, carrying it, and he makes his way up, with a young kid eyeballing Vincent while playing with his train set.

When he enters his room, he finds himself

_(remember)_

in a white chamber, awake on a cot. He finds the walls densely scrawled with notions about proxies, the _grand awakening, _and sketches of people he should know: Lil Mayer, Pino, Raul Creed – along with notes of what he can recall from being adrift in the wastelands.

Sunlight pours in through the door with iron bars, and he ventures outward, but not before his bare feet tustles on what is a manga of Ergo Proxy. He looks at the cover art, of the white mask on the shrouded face, feeling an uncanny recognition, before emerging into the halls where people – _patients _in gowns, looming. (He's wearing a gown too.)

He looks out the window, where he finds the courtyard, the trees shedding their browning leaves, a marble fountain, and other patients who walk in circles and have a game of chess. The leaves tustle under a gentle breeze.

"- patient has Type-3 megalomania, a desire to remake reality in her own image."

Vincent turns and sees a young doctor, writing notes on a sketchpad, dictating to his assistants. He sees the nametag: Daedalus Yumeno.

This Daedalus walks past ("Excuse-moi, Vincent.") and Vincent, bewildered, decides to investigate. He enters a mess hall area, where some of the other patients are frolicking, or sitting slack-jawed, as if hypnotically taken in by the TV.

Then it hits him – he's in a psych ward! But what is he doing in a place like this?

_"Vincento!"_ he hears, as if it's coming from beyond his senses. A girl's voice. He looks around, trying to find the person calling his name, but what he sees are the billboards, laced with rules on patient care and the schedules for taking patient groups out for a walk.

"Hey, Vincent!" he hears again, this time from a definite origin – it's an orderly, his arms hairy and bulging, his presence imposing upon Vincent's thin frame. "Did you forget your name? You're on for review. Dr. Mayer wishes to speak with you."

The orderly leads Vincent down a few halls, to the office door which says "Dr. Lillian Mayer" on it.

Inside, Vincent sees the chair spun around, and – it's a face he knows. Her jet-black hair, drawn back in a bun, and her familiar black eyeliner, as she rapidly types up something on her terminal. Her desk is strewn with patient records, with a nice portrait of her for posterity, posing seductively(?) in her white lab jacket.

"I think I'm safe enough with him as is," Lil goes, dismissing the orderly from her office.

"Lil?" Vincent says. Right now, her face is about the only source of familiarity and certainty he can find. "Don't you know me? Vincent?"

"Aahh.. yes, Vincent Law." Her tone is feisty. "Why wouldn't I know you? The past three months, you've strived hard to make progress.. and look at you now, our _model _patient!" She taps a finger upon her arm, proud.

Vincent is dismayed. In a bout of frustration, he slams his hands on the table. "Look, Lil! You – I know you from another place. You're a- an inspector! And I'm the _proxy_ you're watching over! Ergo Proxy!"

Lil is gazing at him – like wha?

"Something isn't right here," Vincent goes. "I'm not supposed to be a patient, and you're not a doctor.."

"Vincent! Calm yourself at once!" Lil lays her hands on his, getting him to let go of the table. "Don't make me call the orderlies on you.. what's gotten into you, Vince? I thought you had all of _that stuff_ out of your head by now. But it seems like you've gone into a re-lapse. It's troubling."

"Lil.. you really don't.. know me-"

Then something stands out to Vincent. Upon Lil's forehead, and she's tried makeup to cover it up, there's a bruise. And in some recess of Vincent's awareness, he recalls the sweet, sweet taste of warm brownies.. he was munching on them.. and _Lil was struggling with that skeleton- the loud sound of a gunshot, and then Lil getting knocked to the ground.._

_The sound of a girl, screaming.._

"Our relationship," Lil goes, "is strictly a doctor-to-patient professional basis. If you're hoping for anything romantic, I suppose I could set you up with another-"

"Lil, what's happened with your head?" He catches her off-guard, and he points to where her hidden bruise is.

And the look in her eyes changes, as Lil starts showing the first signs of uncertainty – like she's been sent off-script. Her hand, as if unconsciously, reaches for her bruise..

She shakes her head. "I hurt my head.. last night. I bumped into an open counter.."

"No – it was something else, you were struggling with-"

"_Vincent! _I've had enough!" Lil is losing her temper. "It seems obvious you've been getting too deep in your Ergo Proxy manga. What were you going to say? That I've had a violent run-in with one of your skeletal ladies? I'm ordering you into an observation room, under 15ccs of benzalcine – and your manga confiscated!"

Bursting into the office, two orderlies haul Vincent up, one of them prepping a syringe from a small vial.

"LIL! **Don't do this!" **Vincent struggles as the first orderly has him pinned from behind. "I know you, you're the closest person I've ever had in my life as a friend! PLEASE!" But all he's answered with is her stern glare, as he's hastily injected in the thigh, before being carried like some ragdoll over -

It's humiliating. _**Lil **_ordered this, and it's humiliating to be hauled like some feral animal, as the other patients observe the circus spectacle – "There you are, don't fret" – and with some inmates even cheering like they've got nothing more exciting to look forward for.

"It's Vincent!" "What's he in trouble for?" "The model patient..! And I thought Lil loved him!"

So Vincent slackens, unable to struggle against the ape-like strength withholding him, and the orderlies toss him into a padded cell, where he's tumbled to the floor, the door slamming shut as he feels the effects of the drug- benzalcine, it's called? - weaning through his nervous system.. blurring his awareness.. a book being unwritten from both sides.

The walls start to seem like white petals, enveloping him in a cocoon, and his mouth open, drooling – he sees the door frame, where through the latticed peep window, he catches a glimpse of Lil, peering at him with a sort of regret..

_Lil.. please, hear me.._

..


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Lil re-applies her makeup, her face lit by the mirror. She puts delicate care towards the eyeliner, making sure her eyes stand out _juusst _right. The bruise on her forehead though, it hasn't gone away for the past three days. She still has enough cover-up, but it's getting worrisome. She'll probably stop by the clinic to have it checked out.

When she's ready, she puts on the fur coat around her body, and heads out in time for the photoshoot.

"Lil, your snake."

She finds the slithery thing so icky, as it slithers around her neck, a feeling like a slimy belt, but she retains her calm, as the lights are focused on her figure, and then the cameraman kneels down, snaps a couple reference photos and tells her to pose – like she's calm, and yet brimming on the inside is this wild, seductive animal.

Lil takes a breath, and glares at the camera.

The cover previews make her look like a toad; in one shot, she's wincing, and the other, the snake has dipped down her bra. The MUA (make-up artist) says that can be retouched.

Then, as she's dabbing off the makeup, the TV is blaring and it's promoting the poker semi-finals, featuring superstar Vincent Law going off against the new, upcoming hotshot Majin Buu.

"Vincent.." she mutters. She was on the phone with him, earlier this afternoon, and their conversation had triggered _something_ in her, like a reminiscence of a time long past, an almost eerie feeling that she finds hard to shake off, after hanging up on him.

Lil gets her vanilla scent and lightly sprays over her face and hair, before putting on her overcoat to leave – she glances at the TV one more time. So where is this arena?

/

The streets are jam-packed – cars, chevaliers, people returning home from work and arriving for the arena, so Lil resorts to drive-through burgers for dinner. It's a long, looong lineup for parking, so she munches on a Krabby Patty as her car advances ever so slowly down the winding road. Yummy. By the time her hands are tired from drumming on the steering wheel, she ends up parking by the trees, and spending the rest of the journey walking past the suckers who are still on the roads.

She squeezes into the arena seats, past couples who are fervently making out or just sipping beer, and sits with one leg up on her knee, as the giant monitors (towering over the empty poker table) show how intense a poker game can get in promos. The sweating faces, eyes in landlock as they deduce each others' bluffs.

Behind the scenes.. Vincent is getting his hands oiled-up and massaged. He has seen his opponent, Majin Buu – that pink-ass bubblegumy dude, glaring at him with those squinty eyes and his pudgy figure.

"You're gonna pay for my liposuction!" Majin went. There's also other figures from different counties, but Majin is the guy who sticks out in his mind.

And then Vincent thinks of the briefcase full of credits. He has the money stowed in his apartment. Yes, in case he loses to that bubblegum, he's got something good to look forward for. But an urge within him wants to find out just how far he can carry himself on his card-dealing skills.

"Upcoming is Vincent Law! Give it up for your local hero – on a 36-match win streak!"

Vincent shudders, but he gets his act ready as he strides out in the open, a spotlight raining upon him, and he feels awkwardly self-conscious under the attention, the cheers, and he finds a seat by the green table.

"Majin Buu – the living calculator. His prediction skills are uncanny, he can call your bluff by the single bead of sweat down your brow!"

Majin emerges, striding down the red carpet, his gait cocky, and he waves his fingers around; his fans who are sitting upclose swooning under his charm.

But Lil has her attention upon Vincent, as she ignores every other player's introduction, and just watches him. He looks like he's still getting used to the table, as he gulps down a bottle of water and adjusts his seat. Not something you'll expect from a 36-winstreak player.

Now, the other players sit down, and the dealer – with his lovely accented Russian, he deals out their hands (two cards, face down), and declares that Le Chiffe, sitting at the 1 'o clock position, is the big blind.

Poker goes like this: there's betting in clockwise order, starting from the dealer, and the players (once they look at their cards) are willing to make bets, based off how their hand develops, what three cards are put out there to see, and what they _think_ the other players are holding. Sometimes, it's good to bluff people out into folding (thus, forfeiting the bets placed in the pot), but other times, a good player will know _when_ to call someone's bluff. However, if you end up with a losing hand, you lose what you bet.

The gist of it is either you psych out your opponents into thinking your hand is unbeatable during the betting phase, or actually beating people with the highest hand in play. And since they can't have nobody willing to put bets down (that would be boring), players are chosen at random to serve as _blinds_ with forced bets, which the other players react to.

With the betting phase up, Vincent decides to call Le Chiffe, who's glancing blankly at the dealer. He has a jack and an ace – both hearts. Upon the table, there's a Queen of hearts, a ten of hearts and the last card folded down. He could get a royal flush..

Majin Buu smirks. He tosses almost all his chips into the pot. "Raise."

People begin to murmur anxiously.

"Raise," the dealer confirms. "$325,000 in the pot."

A few of the other players fold, tossing their cards face-down upon the table, while Vincent catches eye contact with Buu.

"Showdown, please."

Le Chiffe reveals he has two tens. Then the spotlight goes on Vincent, who plays his jack and ace upon the pile.

Majin Buu rubs his fingers, as he lays down his queen of diamonds and ten of spades.

Vincent reveals his hand, with as much calmness as opening the door to his room, and then the dealer reveals the last mystery card.

A queen of clubs – it's Majin Buu's full house. Thus, the bubblegum has laid claim to 55% of the table's wealth, with some people in the crowd fainting at the audacious play. The commentators are chanting wildly: "In the first round already, Majin Buu has laid waste to the players who've folded. Such an ingenious mind! Some would say he's like that rowdy bully at school, stomping upon the poorer kids, pulling their arms back until they scream uncle."

"That's right," Majin Buu goes, "cry yourselves home! I'm sure your mama will give you allowance for more-"

"Monsieur Buu, please," the dealer interrupts, "we ask that participants retain some respect for their fellow players.."

The second round has only four players. The fourth guy, Fassbinder, wearing his trademark trilby and sunglasses, looks like a scruffy slob – as the dealer is giving out new hands, Lil uses the break in the intensity to ask the dude sitting beside her about Vincent.

"Uhh, are you into him or something?" the guy says. "My, my, I think you _are_! Babe, why go after him when you've got a good package, right here?" (nudging at his crotch)

She glances at him, like _maybe that was a mistake __talking to you_, and then the guy says defensively, putting on charm, "OK, that was my bad. Vincent Law, you know, he's a cool guy. He's been doing poker for nine years, and-"

_Nine years.. I can't even remember what went on last week!_

"I think he's going to win this round – honestly do. That Majin Buu.. looks like a total douche; would be a real shame if Vincent lost this game to that bloke. Sorry if I got you rustled, I'm just in that kind of mood. Name's Devin, by the way."

"Devin.. I'm Lil," she goes, and she shakes his hand, smiling, before an idea pops in her head. "Listen, I'm hoping to get Vincent down for an interview. Is there some way to meet him? You know, when the match is done? I'm a reporter.."

"You _do _seem like a nice reporter. But em," and he eyeballs her up and down, "aren't you supposed to have a, uhh, press pass?"

"I'm an amateur," she goes. And the crowd erupts, and Lil sees on the sports monitor that Vincent has called Majin Buu, and another showdown occurs, where it turns out Fassbinder has the upper hand.. by a pair of fours. It seems Vincent is down on his luck, in the bottom with Le Chiffe – if he doesn't turn the tables by the next round, he'll be disqualified.

"Everyone's gotta start somewhere," Devin goes. "Hey, I think if they call a break, you can catch Vincent by the barstand."

"Sure.."

Then Le Chiffe has his hand raised, and the dealer annouces a 20-minute intermission. Lil sees Vincent, who's standing up for a good stretch, before he seems to gaze out at the audience.. as if looking for someone. _For.. me? Is he hoping on a blue moon __that __**I'll **__show up? __I doubt it. I'm just a model, after all, but he did give me that phone call – __like he __was lost, in some kind of trouble._

She's been staring down at him from the nosebleed seats – so she looks at the sports monitor for an up-close view. When she catches his eyes, she realises just how green and radiant they are, like a gleaming forest. But they're the eyes of a man who isn't sure of the very ground he stands on.

_He says he knows me._ _How come__? I've never even remembered meeting him! But I feel like.. if I could just get to talk with him.._

Then she sees Vincent depart, and right away, she obeys her urge to stand up, brushing by Devin and so many others, spilling someone's soda by accident ("Sorry..!"). By the aisle, Lil almost slips upon a beer-stained section, and gets bumped hard by an overweight patron, sending her almost reeling onto an occupied seat. As Lil gets back up, she sees Vincent behind the glass, comatose in that room, and her hand rests upon the glass, a tear escaping her eye.

She blinks, and says sorry to the woman who was upon the seat. The woman though asks her, "Hey, is everything alright? You seemed like you were crying.."

"Yeah, I'm.." A suffocating emptiness is looming in her chest, and Lil struggles with what had passed beyond her awareness, just now. _"I'm sorry.."_ Like those words have slipped from her unconscious nether.

The woman in red gets up; seeing the bruise upon Lil's forehead – "Did someone hit you?"

"No, I just tripped," Lil goes, suddenly self-conscious of her face. The lady isn't wholly convinced, but Lil gets by – the urge to check a mirror comes, and in the opulent lobby, where the marble stairs seem to wind and coil, she finds the women's room.

Her bruise seems to have died down, luckily, but it still looks like someone had whacked her hard.. that lady in red thought she was under some abusive boyfriend's thrall!

She gets out her cover-up kit from her pockets, and with a finger, she dabs upon her forehead..

The prospect of ever getting herself a boyfriend had seldom, if ever crossed her mind. Lil has dismissed those romantic notions, long ago, when her grandfather would read the stories of the princess, being swooned over by the prince, his heart as stoic as the castle walls which he'd hide within, and it was up to her to show him the wonders of life beyond daily routine – and human contact.

She still fondly remembers those days when she'd be read to, resting in bed, letting the words lull her to sleep. Her grandfather's voice, when he was still able to speak, was like silk to listen to.

But no, when it comes to dating, hell no. She's not into showing off her heart on a sleeve, let alone putting exorbitant levels of money to prove that she should be _that one_. It's a game for sheep.

She's able to disguise the bruise once more. Just to make sure, she inspects her face under the mirror's light – has she always looked _that_ serious? The eyeliner and eyeshadow.. Lil thinks of herself as easy-going, able to relax. But even at work, people say how demanding and perfectionistic she gets, down to her very presence. She'd get upset if she felt like the photographer took too long to decide on a shot, or if her outfit felt itchy.

Then she spots _something; _like a faint afterimage, beyond the reflection of her and the stalls behind, moving. If she squints, she makes it out. It's _her_, in a white jacket, talking with another person she feels like she ought to know.

Lil reels with recognition. The sound of a stall door sends her back to reality, and to avoid making a scene, she leaves, on her way to the barstand.. finding Vincent there, who's in the midst of pondering a cantrip.

"Howdy, stranger," Lil goes, introducing herself.

He looks up, apparently not recognizing her. "Hi, you need something?"

"You seemed a little lost, that's all." She sits beside him, glancing as if he's supposed to react, but he doesn't, so she taps her fingers upon the table playfully, humming a ditty, and Vincent realises what's up.

"You're.. Lil Mayer?"

"I thought maybe you had gotten onto something, so I stopped by. I want to ask, what do you know – or remember about me?"

"I saw you in a hair commercial. You looked familiar."

"Do I? No one's ever told me I reminded them of someone – a few compliments, when I'm out on the street.."

"No, I _remember _you. Feels like my memories have been miffed, and like nothing is as it should be. Like this is someone else's life I'm living right now.. don't you feel the same?"

Lil takes a few moments to process what he's saying. "I have. I get this weird _deja vu _every once in a while, like I've done this thing before, driving my car, or asking my assistant to comb my hair. When I look at you Vincent.. it's like I've re-discovered the lavender field of my distant memories, to be honest. Am I in love with you? I don't know. But already, I find you comforting.. like a protector."

A shiver enters Vincent through his neck, and in the heat of the moment, he reaches out to touch her. He finds her fingers - her soft, delicate hand, and the idea comes to kiss her by the hand, like some romantic prince. She's even smiling, asking for it.

But then, Vincent winces (over a recollection) – shrugging her off. **"****No!**"

"What?"

A new look, of eyes in abject fear, develops in Vincent. "You.. poisoned me with drugs, torched my conscience and raped my soul.." It's as if he's speaking from his nightmares. "Don't hurt me again. Please, oh god.."

People are _staring _at them, and Lil thinks fast – she takes Vincent's glass of pinot, sips some, and then slaps him upon the cheek. A gesture meant to shock Vincent back to his senses. But the slap reverberates, though space and time..

..

Vincent awakens, in a cold sweat, his face hugging the mattress floor of his room. Sweat soaks through his gown, riding down uncomfortably to his crotch. His heart trembles from the residual anxiety, and yet he still retains the sense of that dream he's just.. half-forgotten.

The entire room is padded as one giant mattress, and in the dim area, the air is musty – filled with the sum of all past fears.

His mouth isn't gagged, so he says, "Hello? Can anyone hear me!? I want out of here!"

And what he's greeted with is the muffled cacophony of what seems like a thousand other patients, pleading, drowning out his own cries to the point where he has the urge to scream and bang his head from the madness. But there is something he remembers.. the tender touch of her hands, and her smiling face.

/

Dr. Mayer is boiling another pot of coffee. Daedalus awaits, poised by the table, the evening's sunlight streaking through the blinds - his silhouetted face in lines of rouge.

"You're not thinking of _mass patient experimentation_?" Lil asks, and Daedalus only grins, as he goes through the motions of pulling out a toro cigar, chopping the end off with a cutter, and lighting it up – puffing the rich tobacco into his lungs, before blowing it all out into wisps (without even a cough).

"Only on twelve," he says, grinning. "Your beloved Vincent Law too. Man, that sudden fit of his, I thought he was making serious progress under your care. But I think your methodology of kindness is ultimately ineffectual. It does not fix their root problem. But when I'm through, when their brain pathways are studied, and I follow through with what the simulations say – they won't be a problem, anymore."

Lil shakes her head. "It's.. wrong. Patients should get better from their volition, when we nudge them towards the right choice; you're leaving it up to a computer to decide what's right, what's not right for these folks!"

The coffee has been boiled, dripped through the filter, and Lil pours herself and Daedalus a cup. Already, the raw, invigorating scent has Lil longing to down the cup, so she could think – defend herself from Daedalus' brilliance.

"Don't you realise, Lil? We have allowed computers – let alone machines to help supplant our activities! A lot of things our primitive, medieval brains struggle with, computers do with precision, so we can devote our attention towards the bigger things in life. Why is it any different when it comes to mental illness prognosis? Some of these patients have been in here for years, and we've struggled with restoring them to normality. Now, you'll see real results!"

Lil sighs; when Daedalus gets this worked up, there is no convincing him otherwise. She just goes by his side, smelling the cigar, and taps him affectionately on the shoulder. "Oh, Daedalus – I hope you're not too wrong."

She pecks his cheek, as if to remind Daedalus of simple human affection, and then sips down the flavour of the Jamaican mountains.

Daedalus is blushing. It's a gesture he's always wanted. He gets up, and upon his tiptoes, he leans in and smooches Lil. Her lips are so fine. He leans into her, and lets his tongue slide into her mouth, and the kiss becomes something bordering on gross, as by the end, a tendril of drool still lingers between their mouths.

Disbelief lingers in the air, as Daedalus eyeballs Lil, watching her face for anything that resembles rejection, or regret. The way she glances at him, yearning for more, as she licks her lips-

(Vincent is staring at Lil, in shock after her slap.)

"Oh my, Vincent!" Lil fiddles with her hair, which had been tuffed in their kiss. "I forgot about him! I gotta check on how he's doing."

"Your prized patient?" Daedalus scoffs. "He's not going to choke on his own tongue or anything, if that's what you're worried about."

"He's _my_ patient-" Lil gets her act together as a doctor, and straightens her coat, as she makes her way to the halls. "And I gotta check. He must be so hungry right now."

Daedalus's gaze lingers upon her, even the empty space she has just occupied, as his thoughts think of all the perversions he could pull off in this reality, where he is allowed to reign as God. Right now, as he dwells upon the kiss he's shared with Lil, his mind is clouded by the extreme, indescribable melting of his spirit into her being. Kissing her here is like ascending a stairway to heaven, which, up to now, has remained forbidden from his urges.

/

The hallway grows dim, approaching the observation area. Lil has told off the orderlies – wanting to meet with Vincent one-on-one. When she passes by the guard who buzzes her in, it is a warehouse of cubical cells, which stack up four high. The subjects are rowdy; they usually are. No one likes being locked up like some wild zoo animal.

But when Lil arrives, much of the usual suspects go wild – even catching eye contact with her is a boon, and they're howling, pounding their faces at the glass. Lil tries her best to ignore them, as her attention is over cell 15. Since he's on a first-floor cell, it doesn't involve towing him from the shelves. She sees him awake, huddled in a corner.

_Vincent. I'm sorry you got put in there. I regret it. But I really thought you've recovered.. let's see if you're calmer._

She enters in the passcode for the door, and the door unlatches – Vincent stirs, which is a good sign.

In the padded cell, Lil's lab coat drapes down to her knees.

".. Lil?" he goes, as the door shuts behind her, drowning out the chaos. He sees a welcome change in her demeanour – her face has softened, like the lingering image in his memory. But he stays cautious, holding his tongue.

"Seems like you could use a friend," Lil says, kneeling down, bringing a towel over to Vincent's head. "You must have been so scared, laying in here.."

"I'm sorry about my earlier outburst.." Vincent lays up, so he's sitting. The towel is moist, warm – comforting. Lil is patting him all over with it, even underneath his gown. As she does so, her expression is gentle. It's enough for Vincent to forget, if momentarily, about being in hell.

"I was being too hard on you," Lil goes. "I was so worried when I saw you were acting up, like how you were when you _first_ arrived. You were so dazed, so lost about proxies heralding the world's re-awakening; it wasn't until I arrived as your doctor that you came this far, under my care. But you're on your way home.. so close.."

"Let me get better."

"That's why you're going out for dinner," she says. "With me." She offers him a hand up, and he takes it.

/

At the same time, Daedalus watches them. The cells are equipped with brain-wave monitoring activity, and the system is alerting him of abnormal spikes in Vincent's amygdala, and his surfacing memory. Argounova has never ensnared another proxy in her web – is it possible that Vincent's alter-ego, _Ergo Proxy_, has gotten in the way of the ego reality overwrite? Lil, on the other hand, seems fine; but her close affinity for Vincent, even here, has jealousy simmering beneath Daedalus' cool, calculating facade.

It's his personal lab, dark, monitor-lit, where even the likes of Lil cannot touch. His fingers are on the verge of ripping off the keys of his keyboard, over the sight of Vincent and Lil, departing. And Argounova appears, behind where he's sitting.

"Was it how you've expected it?" Argounova asks. "To be allowed to be this close with her? I'd have thought you'd be more satisfied."

"I am." Daedalus then slams his hands on his desk, sending his keyboard rattling. "I bloody am – just studying Vincent's psychology is fine enough for me!" He relents on his anger. "To be so close with her, the one etched in my heart, where I could feel her everywhere I think, and to be denied to this proxy, this.. _thing, _this demi-devil_. _Oh, the pity of it, Argounova, the pity of it!_"_

He looks at Argounova – here, not a skeletal figure, but a mistress, her hair curling down her robes, as understanding as she can be. Who would choose to remain ugly in their artificial world?

"I _made_ her," Daedalus goes. "It's the proverbial question. Donov sired me for his grand-daughter.. why did I make her far more beautiful, than she has to be? In all His power of creation, God made woman to love Him, above all. Why not Lil?"

"Because you are not God," Argounova says, with all the banality of saying the sky is white. "You are just a man, who cannot offer her the choice of her own heart. But you can relish that it was through your hands, that she has come to be. Do not be so jealous-"

And she rests a hand on his shoulder. "-Daedalus." She grins. "You will get your chance with your enamoured beauty. Time will bring you only closer."

Daedalus watches the video feed of Lil, filling out the forms by the security desk to bring a committed patient out, as Vincent stands by her, hapless. "I trust you," he says, and then he disconnects from the reality of Zaporizhzhia.

He awakens, sitting in his lab chair, as if he had merely been dozing off from his work, investigating the cogito virus. He takes off the strap from his neck, which looks like an ordinary band-aid, and places it neatly upon his desk, as he stretches his arms, yawning.

"Zero disruptions," Daedalus notes, as he observes his autoreivs conducting tests on the bodies of infected drones. "Perfect."

It is like awakening from a vivid dream, except you retain your memories of it normally. The patch lets you tap into the neural network that reigns over everyone, as Argounova sees fit, as an elevated user. Since it isn't any stretch to look for external sources for the cogito virus, Daedalus has stumbled upon one dome out of total accident – Zaporizhzhia. Where _everyone_ lays dormant, generating a combined surge of theta radiation. The big sleep.

Upon speaking with Argounova, Daedalus had learned about why people dream in the first place -

"The reality of the inner world often overrides the objective, sensorial reality. Don't believe me? I know what lies in your heart, boy. You see her face.. like a raison d'etre you forged from listlessness. And whenever you see her, your heart rushes up, begging you to call her back. And yet, your fears lurch over the idea of her not returning your gaze – discovering your impure, unworthy soul, and casting you out of her thoughts forever."

(Daedalus huddled in a corner, his heart laid bare, no coat able to rescue him from his chills.)

"Alors, I sense your fabled Lil approaching.. with_ Ergo Proxy._ Come and be a steward to my sheep, and you shall have a chance of realising your desire.."

It was slipping on the guise of Charon. Daedalus is in charge of managing the fears and nightmares of his patients, and before he knows it, he has Lil as his assistant doctor.

It was meant to be perfect. But even in the artificial reality, some truths cannot be smudged away – Lil's affections being one of them. Either Lil must come to see Daedalus as her special one.. or Vincent will be expunged.

Daedalus checks his schedule for the next week. A meeting with Raul Creed regarding his progress, but nothing major that would impede his dreaming.

/

Vincent finds the asylum to be menacing – a castle, repurposed to hold the insane at bay. The evening's daylight hurts his eyes. How long has he been kept indoors? He looks spiffy in his jeans and coat, and Lil shows him to her sleek automobile in the lot.

The drive is a stark journey. The wheat fields, stretching on for miles; the oil wells, with their cranes in a slow, graceful motion; and then dilapidated stores – the windows shattered, the aisles left in darkness and the shelves all but empty. Then, there are the homeless people, scavanging the dumpsters and using cans as fireplaces. Even though Lil's radio (playing classical music) tries to be calming, Vincent hears the horrid commotion outside – the screams of women, punctured by firecracker pops.

"Try to ignore it all," Lil says, noting Vincent's unnerved expression in the mirror. "You can't really do anything, except not drag yourself down by all the negativity."

Egg yolks splashs on the rear window, as rowdy hooligans jeer on, and Lil swerves the car around the corner.

..

Vincent fumbles with the chopsticks on the table – Lil laughing along with his attempts.

"Isn't it far more relaxing," Lil goes, "now that we're outta that confining asylum? I was thinking, Vincent, you said that you knew me.. from another life, right?"

Vincent gazes upon her attentively.

"They say that our souls live across multiple lifetimes," Lil continues, "even after our bodies die. So I'd consider the possibility that you are right, in a sense – maybe we did know one another, from a time beyond what we know.."

The restaurant is immured in the lanterns' candlelight, in burning incense, and an aura of charged serenity. As if someone had tried to shelter a haven, away from the wretched chaos of the streets.

"You know," Lil goes, "if you weren't a patient here, I would totally date you. Really; you have the sweetest face, and what must be a gentle spirit underneath."

The food and tea arrives. Some shrimp dumplings, and the steamy duck soup.

"I wish you'd believe me," Vincent says. "Don't you sense there is something.. _not right_ with how things are?"

Lil has been pouring red vinegar into the bowl. She ponders what Vincent is getting at – usually, most insane patients take it for granted that something isn't right with reality. On the rare occasions, the "insane" has a valid point. It's not a blockbuster movie she's dealing with though.

"I don't remember the last five years here," Lil goes. "I only remember the last few days. I remember being hit upon the head.. I swung the cabinet door open, and it banged me on the head. Hurt like hell."

"I just recall waking up today," Vincent says. "Lil, our memories.."

Then he looks at the shrimp dumplings, resting on a plate in front of him. It smells so delectable. He gets his fork and reaches for one-

Vincent places his entire stack of chips on the poker table. He's willing to go all-or-nothing against Majin Buu – looking at his pink face, his triple chin bloating away his acne-covered neck, Vincent thinks of fresh food.

"Raise."

The audience gasps. Is Vincent really going to suffer his first loss? It's a desperate move, when he's down to his last 800k credits.

The dealer: "Showdown, please."

Majin Buu reveals his hand, and it's a two-pair. Two aces, two sevens and a five.

And Vincent, he hesitates, as he glances up somewhere over the table. Looking for the one who has left his cheeks stinging. Then he looks down at his hand, turning over his cards.

"Three of a kind," the dealer says. "Vincent wins, three aces."

"WHAAATT!?" Majin Buu goes. "You're fucking joking me! Really?!" He smashes the table with his hands, before storming off, the videotron showing Buu's humiliation under the spotlight.

Vincent looks at the table – it seems so distant to him. Like it's a copy of a copy, as he gets up, under the pent-up cheering of the audience, and walks on over to his locker room, where he meets the mafia men.

"Vincenzo.." The voice of someone whose long patience is on the verge of expiring. "Eet's an honour to meet the great Vincenzo in person."

Stepping from the shadows, is Antonioni, the don, his face wizened. "You had agreed to an offer you don't refuse.. I supposed as much your pride would not settle for a mere bribe, over the thrill of winning the game one last time. So I make you a choice.. work under us, be the guy who everyone looks up to in our casinos."

"What's the other option?" Vincent asks.

Antonioni gestures at his men, who only give leers at Vincent. "You know what you decide."

They had been waiting for him the entire time, and Vincent's heart is pounding. Something in him finds it very wrong to just be used for monetary profit.. but is it worth his life over the principle?

..

Lil has charmed her way past security, saying she's got a personal delivery for Vincent. She had watched the entire tournament finale, her jaw dropping upon Vincent's show of bravado. It was amazing. At the same time, that convo with Vincent, where he briefly ended up in a blubbery mess, before sternly looking at her after that slap, like he had reverted into another person – it had left her reeling with an unsolvable mystery.

So she's here, prowling the halls in search of the man, when she overhears some Sicilian guys cajoling him.

She takes a peek into the locker room, where she hears the water drips, and finds Vincent – as if on the verge of being taken hostage by these burly men.

She steps into the scene's foray..

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks, almost innocently, garnering their attention.

"We are in the midst of an important business, lady," one of the men say. "Go piss off."

Lil shakes her head. "No.. that's not how this goes. You don't tell me to 'piss off.'" She looks at Vincent, who is relieved over a saviour who deflects away the unbearable tension.


End file.
